


Long Night's Journey Into Day

by the_pen_is_mightier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale POV, Aziraphale loves his snek, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Protective Aziraphale, Sleepy Crowley, Soft Aziraphale, in Crowley's flat, night after the apocalmost, soft Crowley, the lightest smattering of angst you can imagine, you can't move when a snek is sleeping on you it's Against the Law, you have never seen Crowley so soft I'm serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 21:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20021524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: They take the bus home. Crowley crashes and burns; he’s been through a lot today. Aziraphale is there to take care of him.





	Long Night's Journey Into Day

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops, more self-indulgent fluff. Title inspired by the play “Long Day’s Journey Into Night” by Eugene O’Neill but don’t let that fool you, this is gonna be sweet as hell. Hope you all enjoy!

**10pm.**

It was dark, pitch-dark, when the two of them stumbled through the door. And it was quiet, the quiet of a night filled with peaceful, unaware sleepers. And the air was heavy with things unsaid.

They’d ridden the bus home holding hands; neither had spoken, neither had acknowledged the gesture. Going over bumps their grips had instinctively tightened, but then they had relaxed again. At their stop they had released each other. No words. They exchanged no words now as Crowley flicked on the lights, gestured vaguely to the coat rack and the bathroom, and sauntered away. 

But Aziraphale could still feel the pressure of Crowley’s palm. As he removed his coat, as he watched Crowley disappear into another room, he could feel the emotions that had passed unspoken between them through the almost-end of the world. 

He followed Crowley into the next room. Found him lounging on a sofa, gazing around with a slightly dazed expression.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged. “Good as can be expected. I’ll probably sleep off the residue stress from seeing Satan and the Four Horsemen and - you know. The stuff before that.”

Aziraphale was very acutely aware of _the stuff before that._

“Do you think,” he said, settling himself on the sofa beside Crowley, “that we have a fighting chance against our comeuppance?” 

He shrugged again. “Hard to say. Maybe if we figure out that prophecy.” 

The room positively _sagged_ with it, the things they wanted to say to each other, the apologies, the confessions, the proclamations. The things they were too exhausted now to form their mouths around. Aziraphale didn’t want to sleep, but he wanted to rest. He wanted to breathe freely and slowly and deeply. Crowley, on the other hand, was visibly in desperate need of unconsciousness: bags around his eyes, his face and hands slack as he leaned back on the sofa, his lids struggling to stay open. 

“We _will_ figure it out,” said Aziraphale. “We always have.”

Crowley laughed. “I’m pretty sure we figured out nothing today. It’s just lucky Adam Young’s a nice kid.” 

“Hmmm. Maybe.” 

The demon twisted his features as though preparing for some great feat of strength, then sat forward, preparing to get up. But before he’d shifted his weight fully onto his feet he slumped back again. Every second that passed he seemed to be breaking down farther - as if the tension of the day was only now truly catching up with him. 

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “do you want to just sleep here?”

Crowley stole a glance at him. “And what? You’ll sit on my bed all night?”

“I’ll stay with you.” 

The words slipped out of him barely intentionally. He meant them - oh, to the depths of his soul, he meant them - but he hadn’t meant to say them. He hadn’t meant to foolishly try pouring everything he felt into them, like an ocean into a champagne flute. But there they stood. And the way Crowley’s eyes turned on him, and warmed, and the way the tired lines of his face lifted momentarily in a smile, told Aziraphale they had communicated at least a part of that ocean well. 

“All right, angel,” he said.

It was the work of a moment. Crowley was sitting, and then he was crumbling, his long legs stretching out on the sofa, his head pillowing on Aziraphale’s lap; Aziraphale’s insides fluttered at the contact, but Crowley, it seemed, was too far gone to care. Next moment his eyes were shut. Within minutes his breath was rumbling, low and deep, nearly a purr.

“I’ll stay with you,” Aziraphale whispered again. 

**11pm.**

The demon fidgeted in his sleep. He appeared to be having trouble getting comfortable; he turned onto his left side, then lay on his stomach, then flipped over abruptly onto his back. It was growing uncomfortable, the ever-shifting sharp-featured face on his lap. When the demon’s nose was buried in his stomach Aziraphale rested his hand between his shoulder blades, hoping it would keep him still. 

Crowley’s slow breathing hitched.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale whispered. Could Crowley hear him? He didn’t know how deeply asleep he was. 

“Hmm -” Crowley nestled even closer to him, his chin curling towards his chest as his face burrowed deeper into Aziraphale’s shirt. Aziraphale moved his hand up to the back of Crowley’s neck. This elicited another pleased sound, so Aziraphale kept going, running his fingers into the demon’s hair. 

“Ha,” Crowley mumbled. “Mmm. Yes.” 

Aziraphale smiled. Gently he smoothed Crowley’s wayward locks back from his face, combing through them, and he felt the demon relax, stop squirming, grow heavier against him. His limbs stilled as Aziraphale continued the motion. His breath became even and slow again. A tiny, contented grin showed on his face when Aziraphale peeked down at it.

“There, now,” Aziraphale murmured. “Rest.” 

**12am.**

Aziraphale felt the itch to read. He’d lent Crowley a stack of books a while ago, insisting no eternal being’s life could be complete without reading them, and they’d stayed untouched somewhere in this flat ever since. A lucky thing, now, he supposed. The night was silent, and Crowley still; he shifted, preparing to extract himself from the demon’s sleeping form.

Crowley grunted.

“Shh, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

His arms slithered up from his sides and wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist. Held him close, too tightly to allow for any escape. 

“I’m just going to go find a book. I’ll -”

Crowley’s grip tightened more.

Aziraphale huffed. Crowley asleep was still surprisingly strong; as he settled back onto the couch the demon’s arms almost restricted his breathing. Of course he could probably pry the arms apart, but that would likely wake Crowley up. And he’d been sleeping so peacefully. 

No, evidently this was a night he’d have to wait out without a book.

**1am.**

Crowley’s walls were so very drab. All dark and muted, no eye-catching color. As the minutes stretched into hours Aziraphale began to wonder if he couldn’t amuse himself by changing it up. Nothing permanent, and he’d ask Crowley if he wanted to keep it in the morning, but as long as he was here and had nothing else to do, why not miracle a little redecoration?

He knew Crowley loved plants - why not a pattern of flowers? He concentrated on the bottom corner of the far wall, imagining a burst of bright blue painted petals, nestled close together with a shower of soft pink. Slowly the image unfolded, rose up from the floor out of Aziraphale’s imagination.

“A sort of reverse returning the favor,” Aziraphale said, mostly to himself. “For the stain on my coat.” 

No sound came from outside. No cars swished by, no insects buzzed or chirped, no voices echoed from the sidewalks. The only thing moving was this gradually blooming mural. Aziraphale let himself lose track of the time as he worked. 

**2am.**

At the night’s darkest hour Crowley began to whimper.

Aziraphale didn’t notice at first; he was putting the finishing touches on the flowers, congratulating himself on a job well done. He felt Crowley’s slight movements from his lap, but paid them little mind; the demon had been fast asleep for a while now. It wasn’t until his fingers began digging into Aziraphale’s back that Aziraphale really looked down at him.

Crowley’s face was in tumult. Emotions warred across it: fear, then horror, then a collapsing grief. His hands clenched behind Aziraphale again, his eyes squeezed shut, and a low, pained noise escaped his throat.

“Crowley?” 

Crowley’s shoulders tensed. He shivered. “No - ah - no…”

“Crowley, you’re having a nightmare,” Aziraphale said, shaking him lightly. “Wake up.”

But Crowley shuddered violently instead and clutched Aziraphale hard enough to hurt. “No - don’t make me go back - please!” 

Aziraphale flinched. 

“I’ll be bad! I’ll make it up to you, I’ll do anything - you love my inventions, I’ll come up with some more, I can - don’t hurt me - don’t -”

“Crowley, wake up,” said Aziraphale, sharply now, louder than before. 

He didn’t. He twisted this way and that, squirming as though trying to escape a thousand grasping hands. “I didn’t want this, I didn’t want it like this! I don’t - _Aziraphale!_ ”

That last word, nearly shouted, desperate, as though it was some last-ditch talisman against the forces of Hell. It fell on Aziraphale’s ears and suddenly he saw Crowley’s expression next to the Bentley, the haggard determination, the uplifted hand - _the forces of Hell have figured out it was my fault, but we can run away together!_ \- and he saw Crowley lounged in the corner of his cell in the Bastille, and he saw Crowley stumbling down the aisle of the church, and he laid his fingers on either side of the demon’s head and let loose a miracle. 

Inside Crowley’s mind. Standing in a dark alleyway, some dingy corner of London, and dark figures surrounding them. Aziraphale saw Crowley being dragged toward an unlit corner. The ground falling away to reveal a glowing red portal downward.

“ _Aziraphale!_ ” screamed Crowley again. 

And Aziraphale, heart thundering in his chest though he knew it was a dream, though he could still feel his real body seated on Crowley’s sofa in his flat, launched himself toward the captive Crowley at full speed.

“Don’t touch him!”

He landed among the expressionless demons, flinging them backwards, and grabbed Crowley’s hands. He pulled Crowley back away from the mob. He planted himself between them and Crowley; he had no flaming sword, but his arms were spread wide.

“No one hurt him,” he cried. _“No one hurt him!”_

“Angel.”

Crowley’s voice was broken, relieved. Aziraphale turned; the demon was leaned back against one faceless wall, a hair away from fainting.

He took Crowley’s hands. “You’re safe, my dear.”

Crowley let out a long, long breath. Just as he had in the real world, he collapsed, head drooping onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, body draping over him, arms clinging around him. His next word hissed on its way out. “Sssssssafe.”

And Aziraphale blinked open his eyes, and he was back in the flat, silent again. Crowley had relaxed. The nightmare of Hell’s vengeance had passed him by. 

The world continued sleeping. The angel kept his vigil. 

**3am.**

Aziraphale was staring at the ceiling, close to drifting off himself from boredom, when Crowley said it. “Angel?”

“Hmm? Yes?”

“I love you.” 

The words didn’t surprise him - how could they, when they’d hung in the space between them the whole bus ride home? Or perhaps longer than that, perhaps six thousand years longer? - but still they crashed through him like a tidal wave. Still Aziraphale found himself bowled over by them, and by the answering call in his own heart as he looked down and beheld his friend of millennia curled into him with so much trust. Still he felt as he heard them that he was falling - not in the way he’d feared, but in a wonderful, exhilarating way, a way that made him never want to land. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he said, “I know.”

Another champagne flute to capture the wave. _I know_.

**4am.**

He was craving tea. But he couldn’t get up to make it, there still being the problem of Crowley in his lap; therefore, he was forced to improvise. 

“If anyone’s still checking my miracles,” he grumbled as he shut his eyes and envisioned Crowley’s kitchen. It was finicky business, performing tasks like this from afar. He had to perfectly picture the stove-top and the kettle, perfectly pour the water, perfectly twist the knob to light the gas. He nearly exploded the stove with the last bit. But with intense concentration, he managed to get the tea going. 

It was rare, but Crowley did drink tea occasionally; he had a selection in his cabinet that suited Aziraphale well enough, though it wasn’t nearly as extensive as the one he’d had at the bookshop. Aziraphale miracled a bag of some of the herbal brew onto the counter along with a spoon. Painstakingly he opened a cabinet, floating a teacup down beside it. By the time it landed the water was boiling. It was another several minutes before he managed to lift the kettle, pour, steep, and sweeten with honey; he was nearly out of breath when the whole thing was ready. 

“It’s been too long,” Aziraphale muttered. What with discorporations and jaunts off to Tadfield and all the rest of it, he hadn’t had time to enjoy a cup of tea in peace in quite some time. Even the cocoa he’d been drinking while studying Agnes Nutter’s book had gone cold. Slowly, oh so slowly, he lifted the full, steaming cup and began willing it towards this room; his mouth was watering.

Then Crowley shifted his position. His nose jabbed into Aziraphale’s hip, and the momentary pain caused him to lose concentration. And the cup plummeted and shattered on the floor.

“Oh, _fuck!_ ” 

Blissfully unaware, Crowley hummed and settled back to stillness.

Aziraphale shut his eyes and worked to steady his nerves. It was all right. No harm done. He miracled the pieces of porcelain up off the floor, dumping them unceremoniously into the bin, and dried the puddle of tea; there was enough hot water left for another cup.

He sighed. This time he was even slower opening the cabinet. On his guard, now, against demonic interruption.

**5am.**

When the second teacup finally floated down into his hands, it was the perfect temperature: steaming, but not hot enough to burn. A flawless mixture of tea and honey and cream. Soft and sweet-smelling. Aziraphale relished the feel of it in his fingers. 

But before he could take his first sip, Crowley moved again. “Hummmmmm.” 

Aziraphale patted his head. “Don’t disturb me while I drink this, all right?”

“Hrgh…” Crowley lifted his face, his eyes opening a crack. “S’warm.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Sssssssweet.” Crowley sniffed the air. 

“Yes.” 

The demon scooted into a marginally more upright posture; his gaze stayed on Aziraphale, asking an implicit question with nothing but half-asleep golden eyes. 

And fondness, overwhelming fondness, rose up in Aziraphale like a flood. Crowley looked so soft in this moment. So gentle. “Would you like it, darling?”

“Mph.” Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale brought the teacup to the demon’s lips and tilted it slowly, watching as Crowley sipped, sighed, smiled, sipped again. Watching as a slight flush crept across his face from the heat. It was so rare Crowley ate in front of Aziraphale, or drank anything other than wine; it was so rare he got to see the demon enjoy something so much. So rare, to see him easy and untroubled and content like this. He thought his heart would burst from it.

When the cup was empty, Crowley fell back into sleep immediately, his head now resting on the arm of the couch and his back pressed into Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale miracled the cup back into the kitchen; it seemed to take less time than it had before. 

**6am.**

They had betrayed Heaven and Hell. The most powerful forces in the universe were after them. They’d saved the world, but how long would they be allowed to get away with it? How long before that nightmare became a reality, and demons came to drag Crowley back down to Hell? 

And what would they do to him there? What could they do to make Crowley, who was so much braver than Aziraphale had ever been, whimper and plead and cry for help? 

Aziraphale gazed down at Crowley. Brushed his knuckles over his jaw, then cupped his cheek, enjoying the texture of it devoid of tension. A hundred times over six thousand years Crowley had changed the way he looked - different clothes, different styles, different mannerisms as the centuries passed - but his face, his eyes and his nose and, right from Eden, his skywide smile, had remained the same. They had been Aziraphale’s one constant in a universe of perpetual change. They had pulled him in, tempted him, first to friendship, then to the Arrangement, then to the stopping of Armageddon. He had come so far for this face. 

He would do anything, anything in the world, to preserve it now.

And the tide rose up again from within him - the emotions, unspoken so long, held back so vainly. The millions of words he wanted to say and sing and shout from rooftops and scream upward at Heaven. But mostly that he wanted to tell Crowley, softly, tenderly, where no one else could hear. 

Finally a few spilled out that came close to saying what he meant.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, voice hushed but steady, “I will _not_ let them hurt you.”

Crowley didn’t respond. He couldn’t hear. 

“They’ll never make you go back there. You’re never going to see Hell again. I won’t -” Aziraphale shut his eyes. “I won’t allow it. I’ll go down there myself if it comes to that. I’ll face whatever it is you’re afraid of. I’ll fight it, if I have to, to protect you.” 

Crowley was utterly unmoving.

And as Aziraphale watched him, Agnes Nutter’s prophecy returned to his mind. _Choose your faces wisely._ And it occurred to him, right there and then, what it must mean. 

**7am.**

He ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair again. Not to comfort, this time, but to map it out; to feel the length and texture of it. To explore the demon’s scalp. To measure out his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips. He needed no reminders when it came to his eyes.

Dawn began sneaking tendrils of light over the horizon; the flat’s blackness softened to gray, and the floral pattern on the far wall brightened. An alarm clock squealed from somewhere across the street, a car pulled out of a parking space, a man shouted at his neighbor. A dog barked. The unended world was waking.

And, as though caught in the fiery light of the sunrise, the angel’s white hair was transforming to red.

**8am.**

Crowley woke. 

This time as his eyes opened Aziraphale could see it was the real thing; he was conscious again. For just a moment his serene expression remained in place. Then, as his vision focused on the figure above him, he frowned.

“Angel,” he said, his voice rasping slightly, “why are you wearing my face?”

Aziraphale wanted to tell him. He wanted to explain about the prophecy, about the plan for avoiding punishment, about how he would walk into Hell in Crowley’s place and if they tried to kill him with holy water he’d fling it in their faces. He wanted to, and he would, slowly, over the course of a lazy breakfast they would share.

But here and now when he opened his mouth, only one thing spilled out. “I love you.” 

And Crowley’s face broke into a dazzling, joyous smile. 

“Ah,” he said. “Makes sense.” 

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley and pulled him in to his chest. Sunlight poured into the flat, London bustled by outside, birds sang from a hundred thousand branches to greet the day. “Yes. Yes, it does.”


End file.
